


That Ain't a Protruding Hip..

by katrinajg



Series: Blue light blinking, red light glowing.. [1]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, Gen, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that dude Trevor killed and stuffed into the refrigerator at the Vanilla Unicorn? Neither does Trevor. Unfortunately for Michael, he's in the wrong place at the wrong time concerning T and his many uncontrollable impulses.</p><p><i>"....Michael turned to have a look at the trouble he was about to get into and saw three imposing-looking gang bangers. A tall, lanky man flanked by two beefed up homies. Michael looked skyward and silently asked God what the </i>fuck<i> had he done to deserve Trevor Philips..."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	That Ain't a Protruding Hip..

**Author's Note:**

> The title's a play on the hilarious remark made by Nigel in the Stranger and Freaks quest where you have to kidnap that movie star for him and Mrs. Thornhill. Nigel asks for a hug from Trevor and then says, "I have a protruding hip, that's not a semi.” I loved those two!
> 
> Beta'd by TheMoonAlwaysFalls

"Come on," Michael said as he trotted down the stairs, dressed in his tennis whites. "We have that court out there and have played, what? Like two games on it? Together, I mean."

Amanda stood at the bottom, hands on her hips, after hearing Michael call her over. "Yeah, and I beat you both times. Looking for a rematch?"

"Yeah, I am. I've been practising, and I've gotten pretty good, so you'd better look out." He had the stupid grin on his face that she loved, and for a moment it felt like the last few months, scratch that, _years_ , hadn't happened. Then reality reasserted itself.

"I really don't think we're ready for sex, Michael."

"What? Who said anything about sex? I'm talkin' about tennis."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and if I remember correctly, after I beat you on the court both times, we then proceeded to have sex."

"Great sex."

"Sex."

"Ah, come on Amanda, you're _killing_ me." His posture took on an exaggerated look of hurt, and she knew he was playing with her. God, when was the last time he was that loose? "Look, like I said, I've been practising and I've discovered its way better at blowing off pent up anger than that yoga bullshit. Come on, we'll play a few matches and have fun. I won't even ask for winner's sex."

"You think you're going to win?"

"Damn straight, honey."

"Oh, you are _on_ Michael de Santa." Amanda hopped up the stairs behind him and went to put on her tennis gear.

His laughter followed her. "Now, that's more like it!"

He was waiting for her on the court, doing a few stretches to loosen up. She marvelled at it; he must have really taken to this sport in her absence. She too stretched, did a bit of jogging to loosen up, and swung her racket around to get reacquainted with its feel. Strange, she thought to herself, after what happened with her tennis pro, she was surprised that Michael would want anything to do with the game.

"You done prancin' around over there?" he called, and she could hear the laughter in his voice. For a moment, she wondered who the hell had replaced her husband.

"Yeah. Your serve or mine?"

"I'll let you take first serve, babe. I'm a gentleman after all."

She laughed, and could feel the tension bleed out of her shoulders. "If you're a gentleman, then I'm Lazlow."

"Well, you do have the ponytail part down."

"Fuck you, Michael!"

He laughed. "Just serve already."

So she did. She hit it good and hard to the centre of the court. He was quick and shot it right back to the far corner. If she hadn't been in the middle, she would have missed it. He hit it hard again, to the other side and she dove after it, smacking it right back in his face. He didn't even blink, just blasted back a long shot to the end of the court. She went after it, but stopped, thinking it was going to be out of bounds. It hit the line instead and she swore. She heard his crow of victory and turned to find him doing a little dance. It was so ridiculous that she laughed again despite of herself and retrieved the ball for her next serve.

They went on like this for the rest of the match. He beat her soundly. She was, admittedly, out of practise. She had been more focused on yoga during her hiatus than tennis. It was her loss it seemed. But as they switched sides, Michael gave her a grin so brilliant that she knew on this second match she would have to have her comeback. After all, she'd spent nearly six months with Kyle, there was no way she was going to let Michael beat her at this game.

"I'd watch out if I were you," he called and served the ball hard to her end of the court. She hit it back and they proceeded to have one long volley.

It didn't matter where she hit it in the court, Michael was right there. He hit every single one of her shots; long, short, edge of the court, middle of the court, it didn't matter. But _his_ returns were never very hard or challenging. It was almost as though he was playing with her, and Amanda was starting to get frustrated. She double handed one of his shots and sent the ball tearing across the court to the far corner. He danced after it, far lighter on his feet than she'd seen in a long time, and this time hit the ball so hard to the opposite end of the court that she had no chance of catching it.

"Whew!" he called. "That was one hell of a volley."

"You were _fucking_ with me, Michael." Her tone was a little harsher than she'd meant it to be, but goddamn it she hated losing.

He backed up a bit and put his hands up. "Hey, look, sorry. When a volley gets going, its sorta become a habit to, you know, jerk the other player around."

"What?"

Guilt flashed on his face for a brief moment, and he hesitated before speaking. "Trevor's...got a mean backhand, and he can make some crazy back end shots, but he doesn't have much in the way of stamina. So I try to run him out a bit before really stepping up. Gives me better odds. Plus it works pretty well on other players, too," he hastily added.

Her brain shorted out at the mention of Trevor. "You play tennis with Trevor?!" She must have shouted that, judging by the way Michael's eyes got round.

"Whoa, hey, Amanda-"

"You play tennis with Trevor?" she asked again, voice dangerously low.

"Well, sure. You know..."

"No, Michael, I don't."

He sighed, an angry frustrated sound. "Look, he was over one night after you guys left, we were having a couple of beers back here and he asked me if I ever used this ' _appallingly_ middle-class structure'." Here Michael smirked, as if hearing the way Trevor said those words in his head. Goddamn-it! What did Michael ever see in that psycho? "I told him I'd used it a couple of times, but that you'd been the one who mostly used it. Trevor said...well, that doesn't matter. The point is, that he challenged me to game, so we played. We were both pretty bad at it, but I don't know, it was sort like this catharsis for us." 

Michael started pacing back and forth on the court. "So we started playing more often, then in any spare time we had, and not just against each other, but other players too. We wanted to build our skills so that one of us could beat the other. Not that we've found a definitive winner, yet. And I thought that since you seem to like this game we could play together too."

Amanda angrily gripped her racket in one hand. Would she always have to live with the shadow of Trevor-fucking-Philips hanging over her marriage? How many times had Michael been willing to jump at a moments notice for that psychotic _fuck_ , but never for her? It was always the job, the money, it's for the kids, it's for you, honey. Ugh! Then the one time Michael did something for them, for her, and left that fuck behind in North Yankton, he still managed to find them and fuck everything up. For Christsakes, he'd even gotten her husband to play tennis!

"You learnt to play tennis for Trevor, but you couldn't do it for _me_?! You fucking asshole!" She was torn between throwing her racket at him or using it to bash him in the side of the head.

"Hey!" Michael advanced on her, coming up to the net. "You never wanted me to interrupt your time with that fuck Chavis. Who was I to argue?"

"Well, maybe if you had stepped up, Michael, and grown a pair, I wouldn't have to fuck him instead."

She could visibly see him red-line. "Fuck you Amanda! I gave you everything! Was it so much to ask for a little faithfulness?"

"Oh yeah, like you were doing for me? How many strippers did you have on the side Michael? Two? Three?"

"One!" he shouted and it echoed strangely around the space. "And that was only after I found out you were fucking the interior decorator. Yes, I went to skin joints, and yes, I thought about fucking them, but I only ever looked, Amanda."

"Don't you get all high and mighty on me, Michael! I never would've done those things if you didn't sit around here on your ass all day, drinking and smoking, ignoring me, ignoring the kids. You always said you were going to change, Michael, but you never fucking did!" Tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes, how had their game dissolved into this?

"Into what?! What did you want me to be, Amanda? I'm a two-bit criminal, I always have been. It's all I'm _good_ at! But I gave it all up, got out of the game for you and the kids and look what it's got us! We can barely talk to one another without fighting." He turned away from her and she could see the lines of his shoulders vibrating with anger.

She scoffed. "Oh that's right, start that 'poor me' _bullshit_. You had money Michael, you could have been anything!"

He whipped back to face her, face twisted into an ugly grimace she knew well, but had never seen on _his_ face. "What if the only thing I wanted to be was a criminal? What if it was the only thing that made me feel alive? The rush from a successful job, the cold precision of a gun, the way the gears turn in my head as we plan out a heist. I couldn't be a white collar worker after that; I'm too fucking _stupid_ to legally rob people. And I couldn't go back to the one job that I was good at, so what the fuck did you expect me to do?! I'm all ears."

"Did you even try for a little normalcy?"

Michael threw up his hands. "Did _you_ even hear what I just said? Fuck, Amanda!" He turned and left the court, but not before violently kicking over one of the chairs and shouting 'Fuck!' as it went flying. Then, suddenly he turned back, one foot on the second stair leading out. "You know, I get it: you don't like Trevor. He's an asshole, and fucking crazy, and fuck if I know why we were ever friends. But," Michael pinned her with his gaze, "he was one of the only real friends I ever had, and I fucked him over." 

The _'for you'_ , was left unsaid, but it hung heavy between them.

\- - - -

"Shit, man, is the only thing you two do fight?"

"Seems like it. Fuck, Franklin, I probably should have known better than to bring T up, but I thought being honest would be better. Turns out, I was wrong."

They were sitting in a dive that was particularly close to Michael's heart (or at least Franklin assumed it must have been, because no _sober_ rich man would be caught dead in a joint like this), sipping whiskey that could be used as paint stripper. Michael had already had two or three drinks before Franklin had arrived, and from the looks of the ashtray, a couple cigarettes as well.

"Yeah, you making a real strong case for not getting married, that's for sure."

"Good. Because women only want two things from a man: money and security. The rest they'll go elsewhere for and then take half your shit in the divorce," Michael said, tone bitter and hurt.

Franklin's eyebrows rose at that. "You getting divorced?"

"Not yet." He downed the rest of his drink and ordered another. Jesus, Franklin thought, how can he drink this shit without it burning a hole in his gut?

Franklin carefully sipped his first whiskey. "What she got against Trevor anyways?"

"Oh, you mean _aside_ from the fact he's a murdering psychopath fuelled by rage and drugs?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, _aside_ from that."

Michael sighed. "I don't know. Amanda's never liked him, even before she met him. And when she did, she looked at him like he was some Goddamned..."

"Hipster?" Franklin suppled.

Michael chuckled. "Told you about that, did he?"

"More like raged, but it was kinda weird because I could totally see your point, man."

"You didn't tell him that, did you?"

"I said I agreed. I didn't say I was fucking _stupid_."

They fell into silence for a while, and Michael lit another cigarette. This must have been the only bar in San Andreas to allow smoking anymore. Maybe that's why Michael liked it.

"You talked with Trevor lately?" Franklin asked.

"Nah, not since we were at the cliffs."

"Maybe you should, man. You know, before he comes stalking up in your crib, demanding to know why you ain't spent anytime with him lately, upsetting Amanda and all that."

"Yeah, but does that get me into more trouble with her or less? Shit, Trevor will do what he does best: refuse to be ignored. Either way, I'm fucked." Michael put his head in his hands and Franklin felt for him. It was shit what he was going through now, but it was also, at least partially, of his own doing.

"You keep saying that the whole marriage thing ain't worth it, and yet you keep trying to save it." Michael looked at him, grief marring his features and Franklin sighed. "Look man, maybe you should do what _you want_ instead of what everyone else wants."

"Yeah, like how?"

"Well, for one, stop doing things that you think'll please other people. Trevor liked you for you, right? That's why y'all were friends. And Amanda must have too, otherwise why would she have married your ass?"

"Cause I had some money and we had a kid?"

"That the only reason?"

"I don't know anymore." Michael took a long drag from what was left of his cigarette and then snuffed it out.

"Look, they liked you for you, so just be yourself man. You're pretty cool, Michael. I mean, sometimes you're a pain in the ass, but I'm glad I repo'd your kid's car and you held me at gun point and made me drive through Simeon's window. That shit was pretty badass." Franklin smiled at the memory for a moment, and then looked Michael in the eyes. "You're pretty badass."

That statement got the first smile Franklin had seen out of Michael. "Ditto, kid. Ditto."

\- - - -

Trevor punched in the code for the side gate at a house on Portola Drive in Rockford Hills. Michael had given him the code so they could play tennis at all hours of the day and night, should the fancy strike them. He thought perhaps after their little _disagreement_ in North Yankton, Michael would've changed the code, but the door unlatched and Trevor strolled through with a smirk curling his lips. He saw Amanda's car in the drive, but not Tracey's or Michael's, though the latter could have been in the garage.

He was kind of ticked off to even be here. If Michael would only answer his damn phone he wouldn't have to be. If that _fuck_ was avoiding him... Trevor tested the front door. It was unlocked, and in Los Santos that was just asking for fucking trouble. He stepped into the kitchen, listening, but didn't hear any sounds of an argument or the wet, sloppy sounds of sex. Frowning, he turned to go, but caught sight of Amanda lying on the couch with a box of tissues at her head and spent ones all around. He could see she had ear phones in, which was why she hadn't screamed bloody murder when he entered the house unannounced.

He crept into the living room and knelt right down in front of her. Amanda's eyes were closed; she could have been sleeping. Trevor tapped her shoulder and her eyes opened, blearily at first then with shock. She screamed. Her arms failed about and smacked him in the chest, knocking him back. She ripped the head phones from her ears and sat up on the couch, keeping her legs tucked up against her body.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" Amanda demanded.

Indignantly, Trevor smoothed out his t-shirt. "I'm looking for your back-stabbing husband. Seen him?"

"He left. Why are you looking here? Call him if you're so interested in his whereabouts."

"Is that a hint of bitterness I hear in your voice, Amanda? And do you _think_ I would be here if I could get a hold of him via his phone? It's off or something."

"Well, Michael's not here. So leave."

A smirk crawled across Trevor's lips. "Trouble in paradise?"

"You'd like that wouldn't you? Dissolution of me and Michael is what you've always wanted, right?" Amanda shook her head. "Clear across the country and you still manage to find us and fuck everything up."

"Whoa now, sweet cheeks. Your marriage was broken before I ever showed up. I heard all about the interior decorator, _and_ the tennis pro, _and_ the yoga instructor. Working hard to bang the whole of Los Santos, are ya? And yes, I told Michael it was a bad idea to get married, but he was enamoured by your tits. Which I could never figure out, since he bought them for you and all. If he really liked them that much he could've just bought a pair for himself to play with."

A disgusted look crossed Amanda's face as Trevor mimed playing with a pair of fake breasts. She grabbed a pillow from the couch and smacked him upside the head with it. "Get out of my house," she snarled.

Trevor raised his hands in a placating manner and stood, backing out of the room. "Sure thing. If you see Michael, tell him I dropped by."

Trevor heard her "Fuck you!" as he pushed open the front door and stepped out into the heat of the late afternoon. He grabbed his cell from his pocket and dialled Franklin, which was probably what he should have done first, but the trip was worth it to rile Amanda up.

"Hey, T. Man, I'm glad you called."

Trevor strolled across Michael's drive way and headed out the gate. "Yeah? Mikey with you?"

"Yeah, and I could use a hand with him, dog. We're at a bar over on Power Street, next to the Ammu-nation. Shit, if that ain't just the worst place for a fucking bar." There was a momentary scuffle in the background and in the distance Trevor could hear Franklin speaking to someone else. "Yeah, that's right, this place is poorly situated. If it had better booze, I might not be so offended."

"I'll be there soon."

"Aight, see you." Franklin clicked off.

It took longer than Trevor liked to reach the bar; the homicidal mayhem of LS traffic could only amuse him for so long before he got into the spirit and started ramming vehicles and shouting obscenities out the side of Betty. He skidded to halt outside the bar, a sign boldly proclaiming it 'Sonny's'. Ah yes, it was a dive he knew well. A few patrons outside gave him funny looks for ramming his truck halfway on to the side walk. 

When he shouted "What?!" at them, they quickly averted their eyes. Good, he really didn't feel like dealing with any drunken shitheads right now. Well, except for the one he was here to see.

He found Franklin and Michael at the bar, and Franklin spotted him first.

"Yo, T."

"Hey. So what's Sugartits' problem?"

Franklin rolled his eyes. "Shit, man, just pick one. Right now though, it's his wife."

Trevor slid up beside Michael, threw an arm around his nearly prone form and asked in a sing-song manner, "What's the stripper done this time?"

Michael shrugged his arm off. "Don't..don't fuckin' call her that, T. She ain't done that...in a long time."

"You're right. She's graduated to first class whore. Only instead of getting paid for it, she uses your money to pay them. It's really a special kind of fucked up, Mikey. But hey, that's what you get for being a _back-stabbing_ piece of shit, right?"

"Fuck you..Trevor. And don't fucking..call her that, either."

"Potato, poe-tah-toe. Am I right? Franklin, back me up on this."

Franklin stood from his barstool, and threw some cash on the bar. "Leave me the fuck out this, dog. You and Michael got your own shit to deal with that I ain't want nothing to do with. I'll catch you later Michael, Trevor."

"Oh, sure, leave me to deal with his drunken carcass!" Trevor called after Franklin's retreating form, and the kid just cracked a grin and flipped him the bird before disappearing out the door. "Jesus, what is happening to the youth these days, hm? Alright Michael, let's get the fuck out of this shithole and go to a different shithole. How's that sound?" He grabbed one of Michael's arms, slung it around his shoulder and helped a stumbling Michael out the door.

"I am not...going to Shady Sands. It's two...fucking hours away!" Michael indignantly slurred as Trevor poured him into the front seat of Betty.

"Not the shithole I was talking about, though the drive would probably sober you up. However, I don't have an appropriate supply of meth to make that trip just now, so let's rain-check that. _Annnd_ let it be known now that if you upchuck in my truck, I will have to bodily maim you, okay?"

Michael giggled at that, though whether it was at the cute rhyme or the maiming, Trevor wasn't sure. So he opted to ignore him and hopped in the driver's seat. "Alright ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking, please keep your hands in feet inside the vehicle at all times and buckle the fuck up because we are going for a drive!"

It took them scarcely two minuets to screech to a halt outside the latest diversification of TP Industries, and when they did, Michael lurched out and hunkered over next to the rear tire. He didn't actually spew, but Trevor sensed it was a near thing. Ah well, can't get everything you want. After a moment, Michael straightened and turned to face Trevor, who was leaning against the hood of the truck, laughing at him. When Michael caught sight of the Vanilla Unicorn's trashy neon sigh, he groaned.

"'M not really in the mood for strippers, T."

"Now there's a sentence I'd never thought I'd hear you utter, but since you don't want to go all the way out to Sandy Shores, this couch is going to have to do. I hope you can walk Mikey, cause I ain't carrying your lard ass in there."

\- - - -

The muted sound of the bass vibrating through the walls was what put Michael's alcohol soaked brain to sleep. It was also what pounded his hung-over brain back into consciousness. He awoke to find himself on a couch with questionable stains on it and a taste in his mouth he'd have to lick a dog's ass to get rid off. Michael groaned, but couldn't make himself move for several minuets for fear of throwing up. After his stomach settled somewhat, he slowly moved upright, and then carefully toward the door.

The noise was more offensive out in the main room of the club, and the strobe lights were not helping his headache. He was on his way to the exit when he heard Trevor shout his name. Michael halted, but didn't turn around, then Trevor threw an arm around his shoulders and guided him to a table near the back of the joint.

"Look, Trevor, I appreciate you dragging my ass out of that bar, but I have got to go home. My head is killing me and the music and lights in this place ain't helping it."

"Sit, Mikey. We still have things to discuss." Trevor's tone brooked no argument, and Michael really wasn't looking for another fight, so he did. There were few unopened beers on the table and Trevor cracked one open, offering another to Michael. Michael groaned at the though of consuming more alcohol and shook his head. "Alright, suit yourself."

A girl sauntered over to their table and asked in her best bedroom voice if they wanted a show. Michael placed his aching head in his hands as Trevor declined the girl. "Though, could you be a doll and get my _friend_ here a bottle of water? Thanks."

"Sure thing Mr. Philips," she replied and left their table.

"I'm your friend again, am I?" Michael asked, his voice had an odd quality to his ears.

"No, but I thought 'my friend' was easier than 'my silver-coin-counting-fucked-head, Judas'."

Michael just shook his head, somehow disappointed, but not surprised. "Fuck you, T," he snapped half-heatedly. He really wasn't in the best shape to start a verbal brawl with the man.

He could sense Trevor building up for some inspirationally cutting remarks when Michael heard him pause. Then he heard the beer bottle clink back down on the table. He looked up at Trevor and saw him gazing out over the club with a truly frightening look on his face. Michael put his head in his hands again and silently swore to himself, because that look always meant a fucking war was about to happen.

Around him, Michael could hear the place slowly go quiet, and a girl's whimpering could be heard over the music. 

"I asked you," a deep voice started, tone rising on every word, "Where the fuck is Trevor Philips?"

The scraping of Trevor's chair on the thin industrial carpet seemed unusually loud in the space. "Right here, shithead."

Michael turned to have a look at the trouble he was about to get into and saw three imposing-looking gang bangers. A tall, lanky man flanked by two beefed up homies. Michael looked skyward and silently asked God what the _fuck_ had he done to deserve Trevor Philips. The bangers closed in on their table and Michael stood as well. Let no man say he didn't die on his feet.

"You the asshole who killed Tray?" the tall one asked, venom dripping from his tone.

"That depends, who the fuck is Tray?"

The tall ganger turned to his two companions. "Man, can you believe this cracker!" He advanced on Trevor and pulled a gun from the waist band of his jeans. "Tray was the one who ran this place for us, and now some bitch-ass white boy is up in here callin' the shots. That you, fucker?"

Trevor didn't even blink. "Is that rhetorical fucking question? You're in here looking for me by name, so obviously you believe I killed what's-his-face-"

"Tray!" The tall one shouted and stepped even closer, gun right in Trevor's face.

"Yeah, whatever. So are we going to take this outside or are you going to shoot up the inside of this club? I'll be honest, I don't really care which it is, but could you please get a fucking _move on_ because this macho posturing bullshit is _reeeally_ getting on my nerves!"

"Grab these mothafuckers." 

The two banger's flanking the taller one stepped forward and grabbed Michael and Trevor. They were roughly searched for guns, and Michael remembered he had his gun tucked in the waist band of his slacks. However, the only gun between them was pulled off Trevor. He watched as the gang banger showed it to his boss and then tucked it away. That was Michael's gun. His _favourite_ fucking gun. The one with the notch on the butt, the one that he'd had for the better part of ten years. Fucking bangers. _Fucking_ Trevor.

"You took my fucking gun," Michael snapped as they were muscled out the doors of the Vanilla Unicorn and into the parking lot. Any patrons that had been there that night had rushed out of the club the moment the gangers had started roughing up the girls. It was only them and three pissed off _homies_.

"Yep. Had to make sure you didn't do anything stupid, Mikey."

The gangers threw them against the wall at the far end of the parking lot. "What? Like kill a member of a gang and nonchalantly take over their club? You fucking _idiot_ , Trevor!"

"At least I did something with my time in LS. _You've_ lived here for nine years and have nothing to show for except an over-priced house and few shitty cars."

"A house and cars that I legally _own_ , unlike this dump you're squatting in!"

"Hey! You two mothafuckers shut up already! We got business to-"

Trevor turned to the lead ganger, "No, you shut up. My friend and I have a few things to discuss, when we're done I'll get to you." He turned away again and advanced on Michael. "As for you-"

The sound of a nine millimetre cocking cut him off. "I _said_ we've got business to discuss, and we are going to be going first. Aight?"

Trevor whirled on him, and as quick and as violent as a snake jabbed his fingers into the ganger throat. "No," he said as the man gasped raggedly for air, "it's not _'aight'_."

The other two were a little slower on the draw, but one started to pull a gun and Michael charged him as Trevor turned on the other. Michael and ganger hit the pavement hard and Michael knocked the gun from his hand. For a moment the man was a bit dazed, and Michael crawled up only to find a knee forced hard into his side. He rolled away, gasping as he clutched his ribs. The ganger got to his knees and swung a wild fist at Michael's face, he ducked it and from his position went in hard with a kidney shot. The man grunted in pain and Michael fell back, scrambling to get his legs under him. As the ganger was trying to recover, he kneed the fucker in the face with a satisfying _crack!_ and sent him sprawling. He didn't get back up.

With a grin fuelled by adrenaline Michael turned to find Trevor, only to be grabbed from behind. _'Fuck,'_ he cursed to himself as one of the ganger's arms twisted under his shoulder and held his arm at a painful angle. Then there was a knife at his throat, the blade cutting his flesh. He let out a horse cry. The lead ganger that Trevor knocked down had regained some of his mobility and now had Michael. Trevor was still preoccupied by his fight with the other ganger, so Michael was left to figure out how to get out of this mess on his own.

"You're gonna bleed now, _fucker_ ," the man hissed in his ear and Michael took that moment to stomp on the man's instep. As he howled in pain, (thank God he was wearing sneakers and not steel-toed boots) his arms dropped and Michael knocked him back. He turned, ready to grab the knife from the gang banger, but he recovered quicker than Michael thought and lashed out with his knife. A blow that Michael barely avoided, the knife grazing along his shoulder. He cursed at the sting and came up with an upper cut to the guy's face. The ganger avoided it and lunged at Michael again with the knife. Michael deflected it and socked the ganger in his stomach, this time making contact. As the man doubled over, Michael knocked the blade from his hand.

Rage is an amazing pain suppressor and the ganger launched himself at Michael after barely a moment of gasping. He landed them hard on the pavement and Michael's head struck the ground. Pain blossomed at the back of his head and his vision whited out momentarily. When he came to again the ganger was reaching for the knife. Michael kneed him in the side and flipped them so Michael was straddling his torso. He grabbed the knife out of the ganger's hand and shoved the blade into his throat. They both looked stunned at that and then the ganger took to clawing at his throat. Michael removed the knife with a wet slurping sound and the blood gushed out the inch sized hole. Michael dislodged himself from the man and scrambled back along the pavement, trying to avoid the blood and the squirming ganger.

"Jesus fuck," he gasped, heart racing and hand sticky with blood.

A loud bang caught his attention, and Michael glanced beside him to see Trevor bash the last ganger's head against the side of one of the dumpsters. The hefty man slid down the side and landed on the pavement, blood pooling around his head. Trevor curb stomped him for good measure, yelling, "Fucking cunt!" Michael dropped the knife and wiped his bloody hand on his slacks.

A groan from the man Michael had knocked unconscious drew their attention. They glanced at him and then at each other before Trevor strode over to where Michael was sitting on the pavement and offered him his hand. Michael took it gratefully and pulled himself stiffly up right. They both walked over to the groaning gang banger, who was holding his nose as it leaked blood.

Trevor hunkered down next to the man. "It seems like it's your lucky day, buddy." The man glared at Trevor's smirking face through his bloody hand, it diminished the effect somewhat in Michael's opinion. " _Sooo_ , here's the deal: tell your people that the Vanilla Unicorn is now part of TP Industries or my friend here is going to stick you like he did that fucker over there."

Michael didn't feel particularly intimidating as he stood over the last ganger, more like sore, achy and _old_. But the effect of the blood on his clothing and grimace of pain, combined with the fact that he had just beat the shit out of this kid, (who had to be at least ten years younger and fifty pounds heavier) must have made him seem more aggressive than he actually felt, because the man nodded and scrambled up from the ground, arms held close to his ribs as he limped away from the parking lot.

"How was that for a night out?! _Wheeew!_ Nothing like a little violence to get the heart pumping." Trevor shook out his arms and danced about, looking like he was spoiling for a another fight.

Michael snorted. "I think I prefer my violence to be a little more _impersonal_ than a knife fight to the death."

"But you came out on top! You're not the one who bled to death on the pavement. Not that I expect a cockroach like you to do anything but 'survive at all costs'."

"Jesus! It's always got to be fucking fight with you, doesn't it? I am tired of fighting you, T. I'm tired of fighting _everyone_ and _everything_ in this fucking world."

Trevor sneered at him. "How _typical_ of you, Michael. Ready to roll over and die."

"I wasn't ready just then, was I?" Michael pointed to the ganger he'd killed. Then he threw up his arm in defeat at the look on Trevor's face. "You know what? Forget it, I'm going home." Michael bent down and grabbed his gun off the pavement. He tucked it away and then started out across the parking lot. Trevor's voice stopped him.

"It's either fighting or fucking, Michael. Your choice."

"What?" Did Trevor just fucking _proposition_ him?

"Because, I'll take either one." Trevor closed the distance between them.

Michael stared at him for a moment then laughed. "Good one, T. You had me going there for a sec-"

In a flash Trevor had his hands wrapped around Michael's biceps. "You think this is a _fucking_ joke?" Trevor hissed and threw Michael against his truck, hands never leaving their vice grip on his arms.

A thread of fear needled through his belly. "I don't now."

" _Good_." Trevor slotted their legs together and pressed himself against Michael, Trevor's half-hard dick heavy against Michael's hip. "Because that," he rolled his hips and the leg slotted between Michael's shamelessly pressed against his prick, "Ain't a protruding hip."

"Jesus," Michael gasped and then put his hands on Trevor's hips and stopped the roll of them. "This is not a good fucking idea, T. Probably one of your worst." Trevor snarled and tried to move his hips, Michael's grip tightened. "I'm _serious_."

"Me too, _M_. Let me go and I'll show you."

"No. You let me go. If you want a fight, Trevor you'll have one, but not this. Whatever the fuck _this_ is."

Trevor gave him a long, hard look before uncurling his hands from Michael's arms, and then Michael let go of Trevor's hips. A quick smirk lighted the sides of Trevor's mouth and Michael barely had time for a self recrimination before Trevor's thigh was tight against his cock and his hands digging into Michael's hips. And fuck if that pressure didn't make his breath stutter.

"Hasn't life taught you anything about trust, Mikey?"

Michael fisted his hand into Trevor's t-shirt, looking for purchase to shove him away, but Trevor wouldn't be budged. "Recently it's taught me not to trust you, but what can I say? I've always been slow on the uptake."

Trevor's eyes narrowed. "Recently?"

"Yeah, _recently_. What? You think that after a decade robbing joints together that I didn't trust you with my life? With my kids? We were friends, Trevor. Fuck if it ain't a sad reflection on my life, but you were one of the only friends I had."

"That's my line."

"No. That's our fucked up _lives_ , T."

Trevor's eyes flicked away, as though contemplating Michael's trustworthiness, but his grip didn't let up nor did he back away, so Michael was trapped between the truck and Trevor's lean, harsh lines as his dick traitorously hardened. Jesus, it had been months since he'd had any...

"You _betrayed_ me," Trevor said after a moment, accusation heavy in his tone.

"I thought you were _dead_! I thought those FIB fuckers had gotten you in that field. Fuck man, I..." Michael trailed off, the look on Trevor's face stalled him. While what he said wasn't exactly a lie, it wasn't exactly the truth either. "You're right, I did. I did, because it was my family or prison and I choose them."

"And now? You gonna go belly up again if the heat's too much? If you have to protect your _precious_ family?" Despite the mocking tone, Michael knew that what Trevor meant by family was 'Amanda'.

Michael grinned, "I think they could benefit from a little hard time, don't you? Besides, I like it here in Los Santos."

"Gooood." Trevor's grip lessened but didn't up let entirely. Michael gave him a shove.

"You gonna let me go now?"

"Nope." Trevor rolled his hips against Michael's again and this time, Michael groaned. "I told you that it was either fighting or fucking, Mikey, and _that_ feels like the latter."

Trevor shifted position so that their cocks were lined up and thrust hard against his hips. Michael choked out a low noise, somewhere between a sigh and moan and reflexively fisted Trevor's shirt tighter, pulling him closer. He could feel Trevor's lips twist into a grin at the side of his neck, then he licked the spot where the ganger had cut Michael's throat and the sensation sent a jolt right to his groin.

The part of his brain that stopped this idiocy the first time was still quite insistent that this was a _very bad idea_ but he was willing to blame it on being not-entirely-sober and an adrenaline fuelled craze because it would be so nice to get off from something other than his own hand.

Then there was the thrill in doing this in a parking lot, pushed up against Trevor's truck; a compromising situation that anyone could walk up on. It was very familiar to the thrill of thievery and the very real possibility of getting caught. That particular high had always been associated with arousal. How many times had he come back from a successful heist and fucked Amanda into the floor?

Michael could feel Trevor's hips losing their rhythm and fuck he was close, _so close_...not even a stray thought about Amanda was going to stop this. Trevor's hands suddenly let go of his hips and snaked up under his dress shirt -which had torn and come untucked in the previous fight- to touch Michael's bare flesh, seemingly desperate to lay his hands on anything; kneading and grabbing Michael's mid-life crisis. Jesus, when was the last time someone touched him like this? Because they could, not because they had too. Trevor's fingers were like pin points of heat, burning a trail across his skin, then they slid around and down to grab a handful of his ass. Michael jumped a little at that, then braced himself for some derogatory comment about his weight.

"Do you have _any_ idea how much I want to fuck you?" Trevor breathed against his ear and the sheer gut-twisting _want_ in that sentence sent Michael over the edge with a stunned gasp. (He'd examine the exact contents of that sentence later.) His hips stuttered and he groaned as he spent himself inside his three hundred dollar trousers like some fucking teenager. Trevor thrust against him until he felt his knees threaten to give out, then Trevor shifted and finished himself on Michael's thigh with a low noise.

They stood panting against the side of Trevor's truck and Michael slowly uncurled his hands from Trevor's shirt. They were stiff from being held in one position so tightly for so long. He let his head fall back as his headache returned in full force, somewhat killing his post-orgasmic high; his whole body would be screaming tomorrow. Trevor gave Michael's ass one last squeeze before stepping back.

After the heat of Trevor's body the Los Santos night air was chilly, but it helped clear his mind of the pain and fog clouding it. He straightened and glanced at Trevor, who looked more together than Michael felt. He was raking his eyes over Michael as a smirk curled his lips, as though admiring his handy work. He took half a step forward, then he seemed to reconsider and stopped, hands twitching but coming no closer.

"You should, ah, take a cab home," Trevor said, voice rough.

Michael huffed a breath of laughter, the sheer absurdity of the night getting to him. "I wasn't about to ask for a ride. I'm not your fucking date."

"No, you slow, chain-smoking fuck," he growled. "I mean, that if you don't get out of here _right now_ , I'm going to bend you over and make sure you spend the rest of the _fucking_ night questioning your pussy-banging sexuality."

The hot stab of arousal that clenched in Michael's gut at those words was unexpected, even considering what they'd just done. It had been a long fucking time since someone had wanted him like that and despite the fact it was Trevor (or, Michael reflected, maybe because it _was_ Trevor) who said it, it didn't diminish the intensity of it. He found that he couldn't move, equal parts roaring at him to stay and to leave.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, T." That was supposed to come out recriminating, but it just sounded breathless.

Trevor's every line was vibrating, sheer willpower holding him in place. "I'm serious, Mikey. Call a. Fucking. Cab."

Trevor's tone kicked him to action, and Michael pushed away from the truck. Suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the cold mess in his pants. He could feel Trevor's eyes on his back as he walked out to Elgin Ave to call a cab. Around him the LS night suddenly felt too hot.


End file.
